Chapter 118: The Training Begins
The dream was a warm, formless thing, a refuge of silent darkness. Then a different warmth pressed down on him, solid and alive. Rupert’s eyes fluttered open to find Margot straddling his hips, backlit by the pale January dawn seeping around the curtains.
She was gloriously, intentionally naked. The scent of almond oil and warm skin filled the air. “Morning, Blue,” she whispered, her voice still husky with sleep.
He shifted, the familiar restrictive pressure of the cage a constant presence. She smiled, a wicked little curve of her lips, and rocked forward. The smooth, hairless mound of her, glistening with a touch of oil, met the cold metal of the chastity device. She rubbed herself against it, a slow, circular grind that made the bars press uncomfortably, tantalizingly, against his trapped flesh.
“Happy New Year, properly,” she purred. “Time for your resolution workout.”
He groaned, a mixture of ache and resignation. “Margot, it’s half-six. It’s dark.”
“All the better,” she said, ceasing her motion and leaning down to kiss his forehead. “No one to see you. Up you get.”
She slid off him and padded to her dresser. From the top drawer, she produced not the blue hood, but a pair of sleek black running shorts and a thermal top. She tossed them onto the bed. Then, she picked up her phone, tapped the screen, and held it up for him to see. A map was displayed, a bright red loop drawn through the village, along the river path, and back through the old churchyard. 5.2 kilometers.
“I’ve mapped your route. Should take you about forty minutes, given you’re… carrying extra weight.” Her eyes flicked down to the cage. “I’ll be tracking you. No shortcuts, Rupert. I want to see that little dot move.”
He dressed in silence, the nylon of the shorts whispering against the metal. The sensation was bizarre, perverse. She handed him a water bottle and keycard for the front door. “Go on. Get your blood pumping. I’ll be busy.”
The winter air was a slap of pure ice. Each footfall on the frost-rimed pavement sent a jolt through him, the cold and the constriction creating a bizarre, focused awareness in his groin. He ran past silent houses, their windows dark. The only sound was his own breath, pluming in the grey light, and the rhythmic, soft clink that he was sure was only in his head.
As he turned onto the river path, his phone buzzed in his armband. A photo notification. He slowed to a jog, fumbling with the screen.
It was a picture of Margot’s hand, her wedding band gleaming, holding her phone. On the screen was a text chat. The visible message, from Margot, read: ‘Thinking about that photo you sent. The one with the rope. Makes me wonder how inventive you can be. February can’t come soon enough. Mx’
The next buzz came just as he was passing the weeping willow. Another photo. This one was of her bare foot, propped on the linen hamper. The delicate silver chain with its small, intricate ‘V’ was clearly visible around her ankle. The caption: ‘Fitted perfectly. Doesn’t it look pretty on your wife?’
He ran harder, his lungs burning. The images superimposed themselves on the barren landscape: Margot texting a faceless man about rope; a symbol on her body that declared a secret to anyone who knew how to look. The jealousy was a blunt instrument, but it was somehow fused now with a relentless, shameful propulsion. His body, denied and driven, moved faster.
He returned thirty-seven minutes later, sweat cooling rapidly on his skin, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The house was warm, smelling of coffee and toast. Margot was in the kitchen, dressed in a sensible wool skirt and a cream blouse, the epitome of Women’s Institute readiness. She looked him up and down, a clinical appraisal.
“Good time. Have a shower. You’re all sweaty.” She sipped her coffee. “And leave the cage on. Just a quick rinse.”
Under the lukewarm water, he soaped himself mechanically, the metal an alien landscape on his body. When he emerged, towel around his waist, she was waiting in the bedroom. She had changed her shoes. As she sat on the edge of the bed to fasten the strap, she extended her left foot.
“Notice anything new?” she asked, her tone casual, as if asking about a haircut.
He saw it then, properly. The silver anklet, fine as a thread, nestled against her skin. The pendant was a stylized, abstract ‘V’, polished to a soft gleam.
“It’s an anklet,” he said, his voice hoarse from the run.
“It’s a hotwife anklet, darling,” she corrected gently, standing up and smoothing her skirt. “Left ankle. The ‘V’ is for… well, use your imagination. Anyone in the lifestyle will spot it. At the supermarket. At the WI coffee morning. At the garden centre.” She stepped closer, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “They’ll see a respectable, slightly quirky woman buying scones or petunias, and they’ll know. They’ll know her husband knows. They’ll know she’s… available. For play.”
She let the word hang in the air. She turned and walked towards the full-length mirror, admiring her reflection, adjusting her blouse. “It’s a thrill for me,” she said, catching his gaze in the glass. “A little secret in plain sight. And it’s a thrill for you, too, isn’t it? Wondering. Every man I talk to from now on… could he be one? Could he be February, or March, or one of the black stars in July?” She turned back to face him. “You’ll never know. That’s the elegant part.”
Rupert stood, towel dripping onto the rug, the cage a cold, heavy fact. He looked at the anklet, a tiny, beautiful lock that had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with them. It was a promise and a threat, a piece of jewelry that made the entire world feel newly dangerous, and Margot, his wife, the most fascinating and terrifying creature in it.
She picked up her handbag and car keys. “I’m off to chair the jam and preserves committee. Your list is on the fridge. The garage needs a proper sort. And do think about what we might plant in the patio pots this year. Something bold, I think.”
She breezed out, leaving the scent of her perfume and the echo of her revelation. Rupert stood alone, listening to her car pull away. His eyes drifted to the antique desk. The January bull, masked and imposing, stared blankly from the calendar. And on the left ankle of every woman he would see today, in every queue and on every street, he would now be looking for a glint of silver.